


Last Kiss

by Tseecka



Series: DARP Kisses [1]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, Goodbyes, meme prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-07
Updated: 2014-08-07
Packaged: 2018-02-12 05:01:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2096709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tseecka/pseuds/Tseecka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He hadn't expected it to end this way, but it ends all the same. </p><p>---</p><p>For a Tumblr RP Kissing Meme, Prompt: "Last Kiss"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Last Kiss

He never expected to make it this far, truth be told. He had expected the first Templar to see him would run him through, no questions asked, no quarter given. He had even thought that, perhaps, he would be taken in the blast, burned to ashes and cinders, leaving no one for the Order to punish.

But to be here, looking into the face of one of the people he had done this to protect…this was something he had never anticipated, nevr expected, and certainly did not want. 

He could feel the heavy, disapproving presence of the elf at her side, the exasperation and disbelief in Aveline’s stance and breath, the horror in Merrill’s sharp intake of breath, but he only had eyes for her. There was speaking, an exchange of words, but he barely knew what he was saying—oh, they were his own words, spoken with his own voice, it just…hardly mattered, now. He had no wish to save his own skin, no desire to carry on with the guilt of this moment hanging over his head for the rest of his days. He did what was necessary; but he hadn’t for a second relished it, and he deserved the justice that was coming to him. 

Hadn’t that always been his pursuit?

He knew the moment that Hawke made her decision, knew it even before she had made it—could see the fervor and the hatred in Fenris’ eyes and knew that, no matter what she felt, he would be able to sway her. That was the way of lovers, he thought sadly, and wished that he had known the right things to say to keep the heart he had so briefly held. Perhaps they wouldn’t be standing here, now, if it had been his words and his love to catch her ear. But the better man—he thought, with sarcasm dripping from the mental words in the lethargic drops of a man too tired to truly care—won out, and now here they are. 

He nods to her slowly as she withdraws the knife, and he won’t fight, won’t resist. Death was expected, after all, even if the manner was not, and no matter what happens here, he will be a martyr. What he’s done cannot be undone, not simply, and he’ll go to his grave content in that knowledge. But first—he cannot die, without this one thing. 

She intends to slip the knife between his ribs, from behind, he can see that much; she doesn’t want to see his face as she kills him. And he can understand that, he can ensure that, but he needs this. So instead, he stands, and he pulls her to him. The knife hits in his belly—a painful way to die, if he were left with the wound, but he has faith she’ll finish the job cleanly—as he presses his lips gently to hers, and then buries his face in her neck. His arms grow slack as the blood leaks out, and he vaguely feels the upward jerk of the blade, hears the choked sob that leaves her lips, and then all is dark. 


End file.
